


The Magician

by Nolfalvrel



Category: Tokyo Ghoul, tokyo ghoul re - Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mystery, Romance, hidekane, memory loss!hide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-25 05:37:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3798721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nolfalvrel/pseuds/Nolfalvrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is to stand in the middle of a crowd, and be seen, to exist? Are we so deeply dependent on other people that we need acknowledgement, or else we doubt our own actuality? Do we live, only and forever, in the eyes of the others?</p>
<p>In that case, what makes a memory? Are they really all the dreams lurking in the realm of my mind, or are they what you have seen me do? Do you get to pick and choose which of those I keep too?</p>
<p>In the end, history truly is written by the victors. For you said, "Be not", and slew me as good as Death itself. </p>
<p>In which both Kaneki Ken and Nagachika Hideyoshi suffer memory loss and form a tentative truce as new men to uncover who they used to be, and just what they meant to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Man Outside

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work, so hello, and welcome! I apologize for any formatting issues in advance. Obscure First Chapter, so read the End Notes for more information!

　　He knew it was a room.

　　Four glass walls and an industrial roof of piercing, pulsing fluorescent, a dark dreary square that stood within the even darker, drearier Outside. His room where he had himself and sometimes the Man and maybe The Bad Things too.

　　Outside was a perfect stillness of murky black, occupied by strange things called the Noise. The two were a mesh of sound and things unseen-- things he certainly did not wish to see. The Noise was a moan or a wail or sometimes a breath of voiceless whispers in his ears. It was unintelligible sounds that made him think of The Bad Things. Outside was the cloak that made the Noise invisible and that much more intimidatory. 

　　Because that was where the Man who did The Bad Things came from, so he watched as the grim Outside grinned a black grimace, knowing all that happened where the Noise danced, and that he knew nothing.

　　Knowing nothing scared him.

　　He didn’t know what he was doing here. He didn’t know what or where here was, or if the room and the Noise and Outside were everything there really was to know.

　　In the very beginning, he didn’t even know who he was.

　　The Man of course, changed that. He knew now he was something ‘Special’, and that somehow it meant he had to endure The Bad Things. He apparently had names too, like ‘Zero-Zero-One’ and ‘My Boy’. He saw that the Man was big and next to him he was very, very small. The Man also called himself ‘Old’, but he could not figure out if that was the same as the Man being a ‘Doctor’, or if it was like Him being ‘Kanou’. But He had first introduced Himself as a Man.

　　 _“I’m a man who does the bad things to help good people.”_

　　The only purpose the Man seemed to serve was to do The Bad Things, which hurt an awful lot. It all happened on the chair in the room, the one with the straps of iron pressure preventing the tiniest relief of squirming under the torture. His arms would be buckled into molds that kept his fingers spaced and gripless. The metal was cold and biting, wound over his forehead and sealing over the bridge of his nose. Then the mask came on that pushed air through his screams, making him dry and hoarse as it held his jaw rigidly open. Needles would puncture into his legs, the teeth reaching to barb muscle in the centre of his limbs. 

　　The Man said he wasn’t allowed to move and the chair in the room made it so.

　　Since he didn’t really like the chair, he curled in the corner of the room, the furthest he could get from remembering that he was ‘Special’. He couldn’t tell if that was the same as the Man being ‘Doctor’ or ‘Kanou’ either, but he hated calling himself that anyway. Far away from the chair he could spy the other corner where his box stood, spilling fresh sawdust, and across from it the arching pole the Man used to give him showers. When he had been particularly bored before he had passed time poking his fingers into the circle of holes beneath it, examining the wet left by his cleaning. During showers it gurgled, and he wondered if some creature lurked beneath slurping the dirty water. He’d called out several times the ‘Hello, hello’ the Man used, but no response ever came. The Noise had quaked loudly then, frightening him back to his corner. 

　　As he used the sawdust when he got too full and had to empty himself, he could not play in the soft powder, though the first time he woke up he had curled his fingers through and through and through again the gentle piles. He’d figured out its use pretty quick. Now it covered everything up and kept the gross smell away, for the most part. 

　　He often had nothing to do, but it was better than having The Bad Things. 

　　Now he was playing with the lumps of hair he’d pulled from his scalp. When he had slept, he’d thought of a fluffy thing with four stumps that followed him around a place of blue and stiff, long green needles. He had been doing something with his shoulders that made his chest heave, making him feel really good. So the creature-- which was of course named Happy (as the Man often claimed to be when His lips twisted at the edges) because he made _him_ , for once feel happy-- had bounced all around and made a sound that was not unpleasant, flicking its long ears and prancing away when he came too near. The fantasy made frightful, empty sleep enjoyable, and since they had had matching hair, he determined he ought to make the creature here in some form. 

　　Around his new Happy he skirted, making quiet whoops and trying to jerk his shoulders like before. He also attempted to mimic Happy’s voice, but it was harder than the Man’s words because he couldn’t clearly remember how it went, just that he couldn’t get it right. 

　　Eatings earlier had been big, fat pieces of red, particularly juicy, left by his resting head as usual. He rarely went hungry anyway. His spirits were high, coupled with the meal and good dream. He even managed a few tenacious yells at the chair, waving his arms about madly. He definitely scared it back.

　　The creak of the Man shattered his temporary delusion.

　　He whipped around, struck with terror, watching Outside light up with bright sparks flashing on and off as the tapping of his nearing became louder. The Noise recoiled around him, receding into a muted anticipation of the mellifluous main event.

　　 _Him._

　　He beat his fists against his temples, panicking, feeling the bloody dips of his bald patches. Frantic, he whined and kicked Happy to pieces, jittering limbs scattering his delusion as the horror of what he’d done confronted him. The Man had seen! How stupid! How stupid!

　　He could have just laid in his corner and pretended that Happy was there. Instead, he had to go and be ‘Special’ by making one. Now the Man felt the need to return sooner.

　　Agitated and quivering, he dared a glance at the Man, His shadow looming on the smooth cement. He was close and whistling, possibly because of what He’d just observed or possibly because of something in the Outside. It never mattered what mood the Man was in. He evoked the same dread and inflicted the same torment.

　　“Hello, hello, Zero-Zero-One. I can see you are quite lively, hmm?” The Mans’ eyes were sepia, set deep in laughter wrinkles and brimming with a putrid, alien form of compassion. A compassion induced by distorted conviction. His hair was reddish puce, lined heavily in grey. The Man’s clothes were stiff white, stark and untouched, unlike his own which were dusted with grime from his blood and box. He stood just outside the room now, unlocking the door in the glass and leading with His white suitcase. He smiled, “My special little boy. Guess what we’re going to do?”

　　He would step back but he was unsure of how the Man would react. Showing fear could make Him laugh, or it could anger Him, and neither was particularly pleasant to deal with. Instead he focused on stopping the tremors, clasping the insides of his jacket arms as the Man milled about the room, preparing for his symphony. His gaze stayed fixed on the tall, white form as He issued orders.

　　“Raise the OP table and ready the restraints. Open the verbal log from last addition, entering lead note, ‘Subject 001 requiring secondary treatment May 12th due to irregular activity after sleep cycle. Time approx. 1800, stamp with accurate time from moment of my cell entry.’ End note, and prepare surgical equipment.” Slabs raised from the floor and symbols began flashing on the walls. The Man popped the case as He laid it upon a rising stand. “I do think, as some sort of celebration, we should reward you for your hard work today. After all, you’ve barely just recovered but we have to start again. Ah!” The Man turned towards him, wagging a finger, and this time he did step back.

　　“Now don’t go thinking you deserve a break! I’m doing this for your own good you know.” He smiled. “When I saw you spasming about on the monitors, I thought you might be having a seizure, so I didn’t really get a chance to look over your file since our previous session. I did hear that the nurse left you a larger slab for your lunch. Did you enjoy it?”

　　He nodded, recognizing he was asked a question at the end of the Man’s ramble.

　　“Ha ha! I thought you would. Maybe that’s what spurred such imagination. Enter note ‘Subject 001 claims he enjoyed the meal, a five pound portion. See feeding schedule for additional comparison following complete examination. End note.’ Can I ask what you made, my boy?” The Man swept His coat over His hip as He approached, kneeling to his level. He felt dry fingers gripping his shoulder in unwelcome comfort. “Come now, if you don’t tell me I’m going to make you show me.”

　　The threat was subtle. His breathing quickened.

　　Wide eyed, he shuffled back and held his closed palm out. Nervously, he unfolded his fingers, displaying grubby hairs he’d attempted to sweep away. He then raised both hands gently behind his head and let them flop as he jumped up and down on the spot. “Hehh-Hehh-pee,” he tried. It was the only method of communication he had. He willed the Man to understand. 

　　 _Don’t make me sit in the chair._

　　“Heppy? ...Do you mean ‘Happy’?”

　　“Yuh-Yuh-Ss.” _Don’t make me sit in the chair._

　　The Man observed him silently for a moment.

　　He muttered underbreath, thinking hard, bouncing slightly on His folded knees. Then, _“...An usagi?”_

　　Unsure of how to answer, he blinked. The Man frowned, then His eyes grew round and He gave a chuckling gasp. “An usagi! Of course! This is fantastic!” Excited, He swept around, rubbing at His slicked hair. “We’ve been experimenting with quantities of usagi meat! Brilliant, absolutely brilliant! Ah, I hadn’t even _thought_ \-- I mean, I thought we were merely increasing proportions. But never-- It must have been the Flemish Giant you were given earlier!” His fervor brought Him full circle, again kneeling. “And you! What’s it been, six hours? There’s no vomiting! This is a breakthrough my boy! Unheard of! Oh how wonderful!”

　　He wanted to cry, he was so confused. The Man seemed to be weeping and laughing all at once, and he realized he’d never been so bold before with his play but somehow it had stirred the Man into a frenzy. Words were spewing at a fast pace, and he couldn’t tell if he should be hopeful that no more of The Bad Things would happen, or if he had brought worse upon himself. 

　　The Man pulled him to the beeping terminal, scooping him to sit on the edge of the summoned table. He placed a familiar (but harmless) beeping circlet around his sticky temples and attached several devices to his fingers, then was away and at his screen.

　　 _Don’t make me sit in the chair. Don’t make me sit in the chair. Don’t make me sit in the chair._

　　“--reporting zero emesis since six hours of ingestion of 5.0 pounds of _Oryctolagus cuniculus_ , an irregularity due to previous feeding experiments inducing immediate choking and distress from subject, as well as forced digestion resulting in extreme fatigue. Vitals at 1817 read as stable, with slight elevation in heart rate and raised adrenaline, normal due to my presence. Log vitals screen. 

　　“Comparison to monthly recordings show of Rc factor decrease May 5th, indicating, finally, a possible breakthrough in the consumption of biological matter that is _not_ a homo sapien,” The Man paused, and grinned at him. He ruffled his hair, smarting the exposed skin. “To encourage further exploration from subject, I have decided to award him a new designation. 

　　“Subject 001-- Personal Reference, _‘Tsuki no Usagi.’_ End note. What do you think, _Usagi_? Do you like that? Usagi? Ha, its perfect!”

　　He stayed quiet, staring, gripping the ends of his shorts through his too long sleeves, wishing he could go back to his corner, back to sleep with the ominous Outside and the Noise. The Man was too loud, too clean. Nothing good ever came of His visits to the room, and His delighted buzz was far from contagious. It was tearing him to bits not knowing what it would mean. 

　　Always not knowing, not understanding.

　　Always just lost.

　　 _I just don’t want to sit in the chair. I’ll be good. I’ll be good. I’ll be good._

　　 _Don’t give me The Bad Things, I’ll be good._

　　“--finished notation, begin session recording. Alright Usagi, let’s go sit in the chair, okay?”

　　 _No, I’ll be good, I’ll be good._

　　“Uh-uh-ih-ih-leh-I-leh beh-be guh-guh-de,” he begged, eyes pleading, snatching at the Man’s coat. “Nuh-no muh-re.” 

　　“Oh my poor little Usagi,” the Man pinched his cheek softly, “You have been good. _Very good_. And we’re just going to do a teensy bit more today. Remember, you want to make me happy right?

　　“It’s all for you, after all.”


	2. The Bird and The Egg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience. So nobody gets confused (although it destroys the mystery) Tsukino Usagi = Nagachika Hideyoshi, and Sanada Nobuyuki is an OC. Apologies for formatting, spelling and grammatical issues in advance.

“Every man is more than just himself; he also represents the unique, the very special and always significant and remarkable point at which the world's phenomena intersect, only once in this way, and never again. That is why every man's story is important, eternal, sacred; that is why every man, as long as he lives and fulfills the will of nature, is wondrous, and worthy of consideration. In each individual the spirit has become flesh, in each man the creation suffers, within each one a redeemer is nailed to the cross.” 

― **Hermann Hesse** , _Demian: Die Geschichte von Emil Sinclairs Jugend_

  


  
  
  


　　Usagi wasn’t, in the least way, a morning person.

　　Late night gaming coupled with a weekend of binge eating every conceivable combination of items from Big Girl’s menu, including over half a dozen ketchup and hot sauce packets with soggy salad (after three days in the fridge, it probably would’ve tasted worse without them), birthed the world’s grumpiest, most rumpled CBI.

　　He punished his alarm with a well placed ‘smack’ and ‘swat’, relishing in its clattering demise alongside the discarded pop cans. Unfortunately for him, it retaliated five minutes later with the screech of its activated snooze button, accompanied by the horribly loud ring-tone of his cellphone. Catchy English pop and shrieking beeps assaulted him, and he grouchily questioned why he hadn’t been born with ability to grow instant earplugs.

　　 _That’s sure to be a multimillion dollar comic concept right there._

　　Five-in-the-morning Usagi was, quite frankly, uninspiring.

　　Knowing that praying for both devices to malfunction was about as useful as his proposed superpower, he lunged over the bedside, snatching up the cursed object, sneering as he had to practically beat it into silence. Then he turned, unimpressed, to his still singing phone. Groaning with melodrama, he allowed his head to flop beside it on the side table, scattering more cans, and squirming his cheek closer to glimpse the contact photo. 

　　It was, of course, the world’s least desirable partner. 

　　“Whaaaaaaaat?”

　　 _“I need you to pick me up something important on your way over.”_

　　“Noooooooo.”

　　 _“...Yes.”_

　　“You know the second really good idea I’m having this morning? That your mother should’ve tossed your worthless butt out and kept the freaking stork,” Usagi grumbled, gripping the smooth metal tightly in irritation.  
　　  
　　 _“I almost feel inclined to congratulate you on actually having one idea, let alone two--”_  
　　  
　　“Bite me,” he flung an arm over his eyes. “Why are you calling at, like, five in the morning? Did you even know I was up?”  
　　  
　　 _“If you are coming to work today, you are going to have to wake up eventually. If you are going to wake up, there is no problem with phoning you to run a small errand before you arrive.”_

　　“Guh! What exactly do you need?”

　　 _“Coffee. Maybe a small pastry. Also, I forgot my wallet today so you’ll have to spot me.”_

　　The ache of exhaustion in him increased tenfold as he realized he would be pulling another week of overtime with this man.

　　 _“Are you still there?”_

　　“I wish I wasn’t,” he whined. “Now I wish I had a superpower that would allow me to shoot myself.”

　　 _“Is that your third idea? It’s actually a good one. Is your head overheating from this sudden influx of activity? Or are you just reading this off the internet or...? Who am I kidding, I know you can’t read, that’s far too advanced. Wait, is this even Tsukino-san? Hello sir, how much is he paying you?”_  
　　  
　　Usagi could be forced to admit he somewhat liked his alarm clock, due to it saving him on multiple occasions from late-nighters (where his best excuse for work tardiness would be ‘I was having a dream about a Transformer Bugatti made out of nachos’, a defense surely resulting in disciplinary action somewhere along the lines of ‘You’re fired’). He even mildly liked his grandma neighbour on the floor above him --who would frequently dump her compost onto his balcony if he played his music above a murmur-- simply for her tenacity. 

　　He could not, for the life of him, scrapping the bottom of any barrel in the world, think of a single reason to like the smartass (conveniently lacking in smart) on the other end of the line. Not at five o’clock on a Monday morning, and probably not even any other time. 

　　Six Monsters and pack of gummy bears Thursday night Usagi wouldn’t make an effort either, and that was him rocking his game.  
　　  
　　(Of course, this was all the horrendous conjecture of Monday-Morning-Usagi, who took liberties when it came to Usagi on other days of the week, and who would undoubtedly make a fantastic villain for Earplug-Man).  
　　  
　　“I wish I got paid for putting up with _you_.” Tired of holding the gadget to his ear, Usagi engaged speakerphone (because there was no such thing as hanging up on his partner) and tucked it into the elastic of his boxers, groggily rolling to his feet.  
　　  
　　His stomach rumbled sickly, possibly requiring extreme vomiting from all his extreme food, and he wandered to the bathroom with minimal wall-to-head contact. Barely any energy possessed him, the three hours of sleep he’d remembered to get halfway through his online game raid sufficient for only the most basic motor skills.  
　　  
　　He collapsed next to his porcelain god and proceeded to inform it just how horribly his day was going to go.

　　“Bleeeegggghhhh.” 

　　 _“Tsukino-san?”_

　　“Graaaaggggggh.”

　　 _“If this is another joke, I find it quite offensive.”_

　　“Oh, _wow_ , this stuff definitely looks prettier undigested,” came Usagi’s panting response. He wondered then if anyone would ever attempt to scientifically reform puke into its predigested brilliance and if it would ever be something people would willing purchase for eating. 

　　The mere thought of this was immensely disgusting, and his tummy rushed its voluntary agreement. “Urk-oh _no_ \--”

　　A face wash, teeth-brushing and two rinses of mouthwash later had Usagi styling his hair while pathetically leaned against the mirror. He inspected his try at looking peppy and fresh with dismay, but gave himself a congratulatory pat on the back for making the attempt. Positive attitude was key in coping with the start of a week.

　　His hair, now (kind of) fluffed, had been freshly bleached last week in celebration of his first three day weekend in four months, a slightly sad reminder that another quarter of the year would doubtless have to pass him by before he was rewarded with one again.  
　　  
　　 _“Move it hunny-bunny. I’m wasting away here.”_  
　　  
　　“Perfection requires effort!”  
　　  
　　 _“No, perfection is a quality, not a medal. Now move your ass.”_

　　Usagi’s apartment was efficiently compact. The double bed was built as a loft, with a staircase that served as dresser drawers as well as cornering off a kitchenette and small closet beneath. The kitchenette overlooked a meager livingroom space and bookshelf fused to the wall. Adjacent to his discount leather futon was a glass door to the balcony, covered in ratty blinds. The short hallway under the loft led to the bathroom, an even smaller closet and the front door, where Usagi tapped the toes of each foot, ensuring his shoes were properly in place.

　　“You know I’m doing you a favour, you could at least pretend to be grateful. I could spit in your drink.”  
　　  
　　 _“Not likely.”_  
　　  
　　“How would you--”  
　　  
　　He opened the door, stepping out and smacking his face against solid chest. After avoiding too much injury inside while barely awake, the smarting pain was more disappointing than anything. Usagi moaned as he clutched his nose between his hands, scrutinizing the latest morning obstacle through teary eyes.

　　Nobuyuki greeted him with an unimpressed eyebrow raise.

　　“Py-boodivul-vase-- _oh gawd ow-ow_.” He backpedaled and glared as he teetered about, recovering quickly. Nobuyuki stood tough and long-legged with his signature deadpan expression, and the pained blond noticed the manila folder outstretched to him. “Bwat’s dis?”  
　　  
　　“Your favourite. Mandatory transfer.”  
　　  
　　There was a moment of silence.  
　　  
　　Then the smaller youth squealed through his crushed nostrils. _“I take back every bad thought I’ve had, Sanada-san I love you!”_

　　“Tsukino-san, I doubt your neighbours ever appreciate hearing you, but to be greeted by your shrill voice at this hour will no doubt result in your eviction.”

　　“Alright, alright, just tell your counselor I agree to sign up for yoga with you!”  
　　  
　　“Hey!” This got a reaction from his stoic partner. His piercings jingled as he jerked Usagi’s shoulder, halting him mid-happy dance and grinding their foreheads together. “Can it, shit-for-brains! Don’t go blurting stuff like tha--I mean, if you’re kicked out, you might get sacked and I’ll be stuck with some other loser.”  
　　  
　　For Usagi, placement in monitored accommodations had been mandatory because, as a Bureau Investigator, he had joined the sixty percent of the workforce paralleling the red-shirted crew members of Star Trek. Thus, Usagi’s complex belonged to their company of employment, the CCG. It provided cheap offsite housing for nonmilitant staff while also guaranteeing their protection. Most (probably all except him) of the residents knew each other, and Usagi was one of their least favourites without including mean upstairs granny.  
　　  
　　This had more to do with Nobuyuki’s belligerence when inside (such as standing in a hallway and making a rather noisy phone call before the sun was up) than Usagi rubbing them the wrong way, but he could easily play the scapegoat and be booted to the street. Otherwise the agency would run the risk of resignation from an entire building of committed faculty who were fed up with predawn antics.  
　　  
　　He doubted he was a valuable enough employee for that.  
　　  
　　“You only care because it would mean empathy coaching again for you,” Usagi whispered harshly, but wisely lowered his voice when released. “Who wants us?” He excitedly tore into the folder, scouring the pages of as-formal-as-it-gets-text and official seals. He saw only a paper clipped summary of his CBI and his partner’s GI record, as well as insurance waivers and the actual MSOC request.  


_‘Mandatory Summons and Operation Cooperation’_

_‘Rank 2 Ghoul Investigator Sanada Nobuyuki and Commissioned Bureau Investigator Tsukino Usagi of DIVISION 3, WARD-11, Ōta City, Tokyo, Japan, report to your Branch Director Yamamoto Rokurou for mandatory assignment regarding classified investigation in a neighbouring ward.’_

　　  
　　“No idea, got it last night. And I just know Yamamoto’s gonna’ be pissed cause I never turned in my paperwork last week and now I’m excused,” Nobuyuki chuckled darkly, as always reveling in the misery of others. Usagi pursed his lips to keep from joining in. His partner had this strange ability to make laughter look so evil, like he was torturing somebody and enjoying it.  
　　  
　　He probably would, but that was besides the point.  
　　  
　　“I’m so happy we have field work finally! I thought desk life was gonna’ kill me. Two months? Phew, glad that wrecks over!” Usagi carefully packed the file into his satchel, a scuffed red mess he’d dropped upon walking into Nobuyuki. He was dragged along by the other seconds after when he was found to be taking too long adjusting his hat.  
　　  
　　“You’re impatient, eh? Oh, thanks for coming over to tell me! I didn’t know you cared enough to come in person, but I guess you’re full of surprises too Sanada-san! That definitely proves your ex-girlfriend wrong. Boring? Pfft! You’re even bordering one romantic right now!”  
　　  
　　Nobuyuki buzzed with his mad eagerness as he tossed the youth into the elevator and spammed the down button. He only responded when Usagi poked him in the kidney wildly. “What’s the rush? You that eager to stick it to Yamamoto-san?”  
　　  
　　“No, I just wasn’t lying about needing the coffee. I already felt the IQ drain simply by speaking with you earlier, and now I’m in such close proximity... I think I feel the blond growing in,” he gasped in mock horror, snickering at the lack of amusement in Usagi’s sulk.  
　　  
　　Outside, the sky of Ōta was blotted indigo and purple-black, a sliver of pink on the horizon. The street trickled slow morning traffic, men and women in suits on the pavement, cars moving steadily through the lights. Nobuyuki made traveling through rush hours super easy. He had mastered a type of neutral scowl, which when coupled with his icy blue eyes, reminded Usagi, and the general populace, of a serial killer. Usagi stayed close to his powerful form as he parted the inconsistent crowds, people making way for such an alarming man. He absorbed the concert of sluggish footsteps, honks and chatter for a few minutes, then eagerly let his headphones snap over his ears.

　　The beats skipped from Dubstep to KPOP to indie rock through a culled collection of subgenres, a disparate kaleidoscope of sound. Usagi was a character formed through a motley of brush strokes, the blue brilliance of genius layered upon unyielding yellow optimism and rash green callowness, completed by the cool white board of a stringent profession.  
　　  
　　Because, Usagi mused while dashing and nearly losing his counterpart to the horde of suits, he loved upbeat music, loud clothing and bad-for-you food. He lived alone, of course, but he was in sore need of education on how to do it successfully with the generosity of neighbours and convenience of take-out filling his stomach (they hated Nobuyuki remember, Usagi they found charming), and little down time from long work keeping his place tidy(mostly). All this was incongruous to his title of Commissioned Bureau Investigator.  
　　  
　　 _Since I’m technically part of National Security I guess I should be responsibly updating myself on Ghoul Activity from the weekend--shit!_ Usagi scrambled after Nobuyuki again, following him into Kugahara Station.  
　　  
　　Instead of guiltily tuning into the radio news, he bounced on the balls of his feet as he waited for the train, controlling the urge to spout his tone deaf version of the music lyrics. To the youth, work was an even lower priority than driving Nobuyuki crazy by stepping on the heels of his polished loafers (his shoes were custom made giant-size and were frigging expensive so yay! bonus points). He wondered if that meant he was sadistic or just hadn’t found a reason yet to take his job seriously.  
　　  
　　 _Or does that make me lazy? Would somebody find that endearing? I mean, I’m good at my job, I’m just also really good at_ not _doing it._  
　　  
　　His track record was nothing flagrant or the like. It was actually _impressive_ , earning a cool nod from superiors and upturned noses from less gracious colleagues. In all likelihood it was part of the reason why they were meeting with their Director. He just lacked motivation, often curious as to why he joined such a stickler of a company in the first place when he knew he couldn’t be bothered with policy.  
　　  
　　Sure he loved Ghouls, but government agencies were so _stale_.  
　　  
　　Plus, death was a high price to pay for failure, which as previously mentioned, could happen and most often happened to people like him.  
　　  
　　To be there, not try and yet be accosted by such praise, both bitter and genuine.  
　　  
　　Sometimes it all just made no sense.  
　　  
　　As a Bureau Investigator, it was difficult to be exemplary when most of your days were spent behind a desk filing forms or following up on baseless, paranoid tips from old timers and the ill-mannered next generation. For example, Nobuyuki, as a Rank 2 Ghoul Investigator, had more combat exposure than all fifty Bureaus on their office floor combined-- thus a reputation more deserving of reverence. But Usagi...  
　　  
　　A sixth sense, like a coveted ace, slept in Usagi’s core. He could observe from the impossible angles, right the slanted worlds. Almost like cheating, _almost_ , like he was carving the puzzles pieces from dust, slotting them into place, like he’d written the end and the beginning and the entire mystery was useless fluff, lingering in the middle places to pretend at obscurity. To play at complexity. He drew on instinct as if drawing a breath, snatching culprits from the trail of distortion.  
　　  
　　The Commission of Counter Ghoul employed two methods of engagement against the monsters threatening the safety of Tokyo. Physical suppression, and mental deduction. And Usagi deduced with absolution which men were Ghouls.  
　　  
　　“Do rabbits even have a strong sense of smell? Or is it that you hear it in their heartbeat?” The grumbling of his coworkers were met with a sheepish chuckle. He could feel the resentment like needle points, little tacks stabbed into his skin as he turned. Knives burrowed in his back.  
　　  
　　The pair slumped in vacant seats after squeezing through the boarding crowd. The blond promptly cozied his head against the GI’s left side. A lack of protest made the man’s own exhaustion unmistakable. Nobuyuki lived a good thirty minutes from Usagi. Normally, they met at the Commission steps. His alarm had obviously blared a lot earlier so he could make a nuisance of himself.  
　　  
　　What a dick.  
　　  
　　“Ew, I can feel your veins you junkie.”  
　　  
　　“Yeah and I can feel your double chin forming. You should join me at the gym instead of criticizing, fatso.”  
　　  
　　“I hope I drool on you.”  
　　  
　　Usagi promptly fell into a halfhearted doze. Minutes passed.  
　　  
　　A group of young school girls in beige and maroon boarded when they crossed Ikegami, chittering quietly. One, pretty with brown hair reminding him of hazelnut filling, made eye contact briefly.  
　　  
　　Usagi gave a leisurely smile.  
　　  
　　She reacted as if stung, eyes darting like the busy bee. She found sudden interest in her feet as Usagi himself recoiled, bewildered by her revulsion.  
　　  
　　 _I didn’t mean to be... She doesn’t think...? No, but-- well maybe, its just..._ As he brushed his bangs from his frowning face and felt puckered skin, he understood with awful horror.  
　　  
　　 _She could see his eye._  
　　  
　　A gnarled expanse of stapled skin.  
　　  
　　 _They all could._  
　　  
　　A malicious parting gift.  
　　  
　　 _He was deformed (Oh dear is it contagious?) and repulsive (Is disfigurement infectious?) and they would be clamoring to get away, that’s why none dared come close, he looked;_  
　　  
　　 _Just_  
　　  
　　 _Like_  
　　  
　　 _A_  
　　  
　　 _Monster_  
　　  
　　He tried not to immediately dive for his bag, instead shakily sitting up and covering the right side of his face.  
　　  
　　Nobuyuki clued in fairly quickly, clicking his tongue and digging through the front pocket. Usagi felt the white gauze pressed into his idle left hand. A medical eyepatch, the sterile dress he’d forgotten to loop over his stupid head.  
　　  
　　A patch job couldn’t fix it though. The illusion of him being just like any other Japanese citizen was gone.  
　　  
　　He covered himself, face hot.  
　　  
　　“Sanada-san, are you a fan of Hermann Hesses’ work?” His voice wavered, betraying his cheerful facade.  
　　  
　　He received a side-long glance. “Is that another porn director?”  
　　  
　　The humour was dry, lacking the flavour of tease. Nobuyuki was concerned.  
　　  
　　“ _No_ , I mean I don’t think so. I’m referring to the German guy, the one who wrote ‘ _Demian’_.”  
　　  
　　Concern gave way to curiosity. Usagi continued. “In ‘ _Demian_ ’, there’s a famous passage that goes something like: ‘ _The bird struggles out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world._ ’”  
　　  
　　“Sounds like Hesse was a morbid guy.”  
　　  
　　Usagi observed as the crowd, the ones he’d thought repelled by Nobuyuki, instead shunned him. The boy with the scars.  
　　  
　　“I think he was on to something. Like, look around. Doesn’t this world seem peaceful? The people here engage in trivial pursuits. Laundry, catching up with friends, weekly soaps, blogging. It’s so superficial, but so what? ‘Damn anyone who disturbs it’! And that’s what the Ghouls do. They destroy their illusion. It’s like, the acknowledgment that there lurks a creature capable of throwing their plans off balance is more culpable than the actual creature itself. The knowledge of the bird in the egg is more terrifying to them than the act of destruction.  
　　  
　　“So seeing the shell that protects the world, the cradle of their lives, is this hideous reminder that they’re inevitably vulnerable, because inside they’re harbouring the being that’s going to kill them.”  
　　  
　　Nobuyuki seemed bemused as he absorbed Usagi’s words. He shuffled his fingers upon his knees, reaching for a response. He sighed,“Humans are the yoke and Ghouls are the bird. They share the world of the egg, is that it?”  
　　  
　　“Yeah, I guess! It’s just something fascinating I read-- I mean, it popped up in this game I was playing online, the host was like this psychology major or whatever, totally bogus, but there you go.”  
　　  
　　“...If that’s what you think Tsukino-san, then where does the CCG tie in?”  
　　  
　　“Well, to be fair,” Usagi smiled a secret smile. “If we’re talking about a perfect world, we are the vigilant shell, protecting our lovely citizens.” He felt his tiny mask, his own tragic memento. “But I think everyone has it backwards really. And that gamer guy was a real tool when I said this too! I mean, of course Ghouls are the _bird_.  
　　  
　　“However, the CCG is the yoke from which they feast and grow, and after the distraction is gone, they consume the shell--which is undeniably weak, and therefore human.”  
　　  
　　Humans just refuse to see it, said the silence.  
　　  
　　“Just a thought!” Usagi chuckled at himself depreciatingly, waving his hand as if to write it all off as nonsense. He hoped Nobuyuki thought of it as such even as the other watched him. He beamed at the ignorant bliss that suffused the minds of Tokyo. He was callously dismissed by all.  
　　  
　　Damaged goods were damaged goods, and he was a piece of rot within the city wood. He made the pretense unstable.  
　　  
　　 _Funny thing, Tokyo._  
　　  
　　 _I did this for you._  
　　  
　　 _So you don’t get to judge_.  
　　  
　　 _You don’t know me._  
　　  
　　 _For I am human too._  
　　  
　　The frightened girl was pinned by an inimical glare until her hurried escape at Kamata Station, where she was lost to Nobuyuki during departure. Usagi patted the grim investigators’ arm, feeling sorry for her. His partner was too used to his disfigurement to have copped on, and Usagi himself hadn’t realized until she’d turned away. Likely he would have walked into headquarters unawares, a far worse scenario than a tram full of strangers. He was somewhat grateful. Yet his cheeks still burned.  
　　  
　　She could’ve at least tried to smile back.  
　　  
　　So, yeah, somewhat.  
　　  
　　Ōta City boasted morning smog as they exited the swollen train and made for the transfer to Keihin Tohoku Line. Come winter, the pollution would rival the foul density of Beijing. White dress shirts would become obsolete and face masks quite popular. For now, the groggy air was more welcome than the stuffy rail car, and Usagi chirped a suggestion.  
　　  
　　“Let’s grab coffee in Omori!”  
　　  


　　“Agreed.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed, I know it was a stale chapter. Originally it was about 8000 words and I decided to cut it to finally be able to post the chapter. The next chapter offers a slight reference to backstory as well as the introduction of the 11th Ward CCG, and should be up within the next two days. The fourth chapter, I can confirm, will introduce Usagi to Haise. :) 
> 
> DISCLOSURE: For any fans of the original Japanese Sailor Moon, Tsukino Usagi sounds very familiar. Yes, I did use the original Japanese name of Sailor Moon for Hide. This is because of the common reference to rabbits for Hide in TG, and Usagi=Rabbit. When I began researching names, I found out Tsukino Usagi translates roughly to Rabbit of the Moon, which references a very interesting Japanese legend. Since it was such a perfect fit, I took the liberty of using it even though its apparently a girls name. I will make a joke about this in the actual story, along with Nobuyuki's name since it is the name of a famous Japanese samurai. 
> 
> Usagi/Hide's apartment: http://thetinylife.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/lofted-bedroom-nyc-cabinet-apartment.jpg except with drawers in the stairs.


	3. The Woman in Pastels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the extremely long delay between releases even though I promised an early update! Apologies in advance for spelling and formatting errors! Hope you enjoy!

  
That’s how Ptolemy imagined the disposition of his memories, his thoughts: they were still his, still in the range of his thinking, but they were, many and most of them, locked on the other side a closed door that he’s lost the key for. So his memory became like secrets held away from his own mind. But these secrets were noisy things; they babbled and muttered behind the door, and so if he listened closely he might catch a snatch of something he once knew well.

\-- **Walter Mosley** , _The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey_  
  
  
  
  
  
  


　　When Tsukino Usagi had first woken in the hospital room he’d been a foul patient.

　　No, wait. 

　　The patient that had woken in Kanou General three years previously had been particularly foul. 

　　That’s better. 

　　Later, the patient acknowledged himself as Tsukino Usagi; but the young man that spied the nurse at his side was near besotted with blind delirium. His ignorance was infinite and terrifying, and overwhelming fear crawled into his lungs, burrowing deep and nesting. He choked on the pipe of the respirator, jerking at the weight of tubes and wires, an amalgamation of devices meant to keep him alive. 

　　 _You don’t know who you are and you’re in a room with an alien man and alien noise and oh God are you back where you started because you_ **don’t know who you are**. 

　　“Sir, I need you to remain calm. My name is Toya, I’m the nurse responsible for your care. The doctor is right outside, but first I need to remove the venti--” 

　　The calm scripting was interrupted by the patient’s lunge. 

　　Even later than when he was introduced to himself, Usagi sat hunched on his narrow cot, arms secured in a pristine straight jacket. Twenty six hours ago, he’d grievously injured a kindly RN. 

　　The regret did odd things to his heartbeat. 

　　His replacement nurse was an ethnic woman, seasoned and less reedy than the former. She checked his vitals without urgency, reassured by the security guard leaning against the door. Scratches under the silent man’s cheekbone itched for revenge. It was said in his searing gaze. 

　　Usagi scrunched his nose a few times. The man had already got him back with a well-placed elbow. The doctor patched him up lickety-split after he’d been subdued, near frenetic. Apparently the whole incident forced the doctor to delay some important meeting for Usagi in terror of someone witnessing his now broken nose. Whatever. Allegedly he healed fast so he wouldn’t wait long. His new lady--Mari he could see-- finished injecting the site on his thigh with some additional sedative. He cleared his throat, watching the guard shift. 

　　“Can I have some water,” Usagi croaked. 

　　Sympathetically, Mari patted his leg. “Of course honey.” 

　　The drink had never tasted sweeter.  


  


********************************************************************************************************************************

  
  


　　“Yum!” 

　　“I don’t know how you can say that to something the consistency of mucous.” 

　　“Don’t knock it ‘till you try it!” 

　　“Even Satan wouldn’t subject me to that.” 

　　Snorting, Usagi licked the whipped cream from his eager lips, savouring the sugariness. Nobuyuki had the oddest way of theatrics (for somebody so impassive) when faced with anything remotely adventurous. 

　　Their headquarters loomed and he fought to keep up with the brisk long legs of the other. Sipping his hot drink became hazardous at this pace so Usagi held it aside, people watching. Most people entered the stern, tall office building in pairs similar to themselves, as was the style of the 11th Ward CCG. The majority of workers supported Usagi’s designation as paper pushing Bureau Investigators. Special exceptions had GI partners though, same as Usagi. 

　　Of course, this was because the 11th Ward was a reformed Ghoul playground. Months of diligent, inch-by-inch clawing and methodical extermination had restored some measure of order and propriety to the barbarous no-man’s-land, and now it was an arduous struggle of maintenance. Usagi, having only been in Ōta a meager year, gave his utmost respect to the brave veterans on his team. 

　　His partner however… 

　　The menace Nobuyuki exuded when a clumsy female investigator bumped him had Usagi rushing to grab at his arm. 

　　The poor thing scampered away the minute Nobuyuki’s attention had been redirected. “H-hey now, Sanada-san. Eh...do you think maybe you could let me taste some of your drink, since you think mine is so abnormal?” 

　　“Fuck no.” But he let Usagi sip from it anyway, amused when the blond sputtered and gulped heavily from his own cup to recover. 

　　 _“Bitter!”_

　　“Duh, it’s a man’s drink.” 

　　“Yeah, yeah. Now that’s something Satan would enjoy.”  
  
  


********************************************************************************************************************************

  
  


　　Let’s see... 

　　The hospital? 

　　Yes, that’s right. 

　　He was in the hospital. 

　　He dimly realized he was hungry, but mostly he felt worn. Perplexed; thoughts over-stretched and extended beyond his cognition. He recognized a lot of things, especially after watching the news. He was employed by the Commission, and had only been there a short while. Some sort of accident had put him here. Based on the number of skin grafts, his attacker had been depraved by starvation. 

　　The recorded broadcast was the aftermath of a Dove raid in the 20th Ward. Bizarrely, he had allegedly been there days before (over a month now?). The thick staples over his right eye evidenced that. He was just disconnected, was all. Being told who and what you were was a lot different than remembering. 

　　Why did he feel so discomfited, like he’d been outwitted? 

　　When the shameless, furious voices grew from the hall outside, he was jarred by his own cool acceptance. 

　　…Had he somehow anticipated this? 

　　 _…But why…_

　　From what little Usagi had rediscovered, to have two members of the Washū family burst into his room, heaving as though they’d run and yet treading like wary kittens, was discordant. Individuals of such glorious repute had no place here at the foot of the world. At the end of his feet, where he stared tiredly and drugged in his unhappy jacket. Some part of him felt humiliated with such a presentation. The exhausted, dominate mind wanted them to leave. 

　　A heated argument erupted between the pair again. They spoke (German?) softly but quickly. A minute later had the younger one ducking out, raising his voice then returning with the nervous doctor, who helped Usagi hurriedly from the binding clothes. 

　　“Thank you, Fukui-hakase,” came the polite, but stiff Japanese of the gentleman who had smiled encouragingly at Usagi while the other had gone off to yell. 

　　Washū Yoshitoki appeared kindly, his cheekbones prominent even under the fluorescents. He was older, nearing his fifties and handsome. He waited patiently for the MD to leave before addressing Usagi. “Tsukino Usagi-san, I’d just like to start by commending you for your service. I am Washū Yoshitoki, Bureau Director of the Central Office for the Commission of Counter Ghoul. This is my son, Washū Matsuri, Associate Special Class GI of Division II. Matsuri-san will explain a few details regarding your hospitalization while I discuss your recovery with the doctor.” 

　　With that, Yoshitoki presented an unexpected bow as Usagi massaged his wrists. The display interrupted the youth’s indifference, and he spotted a fleeting look of distaste in Matsuri’s expression, a similar anxiety returned by Yoshitoki to his son’s back as he followed Dr. Fukui to the hall. 

　　Matsuri adjusted his glasses, causing Usagi to squint from the flash of light. His hubris stiffened his posture, hardening his words. 

　　“Tsukino-san, I shall keep the discussion brief, as I am only meeting with you due to special circumstances.” If sympathy had ever lined his face, it had been eroded by arrogance. “You performed exemplary services for us during the Owl Suppression Operation. Due to injuries you sustained during the Op, you are suffering from amnestic syndrome, thus far narrowed to retrograde amnesia. Fukai-hakase has already informed you that the effects may be and most likely are permanent.” 

　　Usagi nodded, but Matsuri seemed the type not to care if he hadn’t understood anyway. He had dark hair, raven black like his father’s, and the same bold features, but none of the humanity. “Understanding this the CCG would like to thank you, and has already disclosed any files relevant to your recovery. The CCG is also covering all medical costs associated with your current condition, and is drafting a team of specialists to help with adjustment in these...‘tough times’. As no next of kin has come forward, the CCG has taken responsibility for you as a minor--” 

　　“--what?” 

　　 _“Excuse me?”_

　　The appall of Matsuri, the way it textured his voice, made it very clear he was not used to interruptions. 

　　“What does that mean, ‘no next of kin’?” 

　　If he were an ant, or any form of insect, he would feel more secure and worthwhile than he did then under Matsuri’s filthy gaze. 

　　“Nobody has stepped forward to verify you.” 

　　“So...does that mean nobody... Nobody’s come looking for me?” 

　　“As I say for the third time, no person within or outside of the nation of Japan has claimed relation to ‘Tsukino Usagi’. Now--” 

　　“How can that be possible? How can nobody--I mean,” Usagi leaned forwards, desperate, making a spectacle of himself, playing the fool, but _dammit_ \-- “Why would nobody show up? Have you told people I’m missing, maybe they don’t realize, maybe they didn’t know I was there--” 

　　“Tsukino-san, you have been at Kanou General for three weeks. Anybody you had even the slightest relevance to would have approached the CCG by this point. The end of the matter is, there is nobody looking for you.” 

　　Matsuri peeled Usagi apart from his skin, leaving him winded; wounded; exposed. His eyes that were cold were now cruel and Usagi trembled as it enveloped him in an icy loneliness. 

　　 _Recap._

　　 _I was a regular part-timer at the CCG, right?_

　　 _I was invited to Division II._

　　 _But before that... Is it... Does it mean..._

　　 _So did I join because I knew if I died, if being part of the CCG would make it relevant, it still wouldn’t matter, because nobody would miss me...?_

　　 _Oh, no... No... No..._

　　“Please, just, just make some sort of public bulletin, some news announcement, there-there might--” The air snickered as now as it sucked from his lungs _and-he-couldn’t-catch-his-breath--_

　　“Tsukino-san, if you are not in a state of mind to accept what I am presenting you, I may have to suggest that Fukui-hakase revaluate your projected recovery and reschedule--” 

　　 _“Matsuri.”_ The command cracked, righting the junior Washū to his place. With a composed authority, Yoshitoki stepped back inside. There was a new ferocity to his walk, in his eyes, which cowed even the defiant Matsuri. The Director exhibited calm, and was politely firm as he approached. 

　　“Tsukino-san, I can see this is all very much to take in. I apologize that we are causing you stress, but I wanted to take...personal responsibility for what happened. I’m deeply sorry for Matsuri-san’s behaviour. If you would like, we have referred a social worker to your case. She is quite professional, and might offer more delicacy than us businessmen.” 

　　“I want to go home,” Usagi blurted. “Just take me home, please, I’ll show you.” 

　　“He’s obviously still unstable--” 

　　“Matsuri, wait in the hall outside. _Now_.” 

　　“Please let me go home.” There was a wetness on his cheeks that tickled when Matsuri slammed the door behind him. “I know there’s somebody waiting there, please, _please_ let me go home.” 

　　Yoshitoki’s hands were raised and his steps were unyielding. The emotion he wore was not pity, but it was a sadness so real and vast that Usagi had trouble placing it. 

　　If there were words that followed, he could not hear them, but they were a guise of a whispered prayer for forgiveness. There was a press against his skin, the hint of comfort almost like a warm embrace. He knew it then, but nevermore, because it all melded into the ambiguous loss of his mind. He treaded after, calling, but what he called for was swallowed by the nebulous like everything else.  
  
  


********************************************************************************************************************************

  
  


　　 _“At 2100 last night, the CCG revealed they have yet to apprehend the Ghoul terrorizing Tokyo, nicknamed _‘Torso’_. As a reminder to all citizens, _‘Torso’_ is a very dangerous Ghoul, dismembering its victims, leaving behind everything but the torso. Reliable inside sources say that Investigators have yet to receive a solid lead, however pressure from the government has caused a spokesperson to step forward, the illustrious Associate Special Class of Division II, Washū Matsuri:_

　　 _“Rest assured, citizens of Tokyo, that your safety is our utmost priority. We are working around the clock to ensure—”_

　　“Ugh,” Usagi mashed his _manjū_ to his mouth, glowering at the wide overhead screen. “Man, I hate that guy.” 

　　“Uh-huh.” Nobuyuki nodded, sparing a glance at the news telecast as he munched his chunks of _tamago_ , “And was your _manjū_ made by Matsuri or is it just a casualty of war?” 

　　“Wha—” Usagi frowned at the crumbling mess of bread and paste. “No, it’s just, he’s such an asshole, but he goes on like he should get an award for it or something.” 

　　“Tsukino-san, if he isn’t responsible for your breakfast it means you’re wasting something you begged me to buy for you, even though you were supposed to pay for me.” 

　　They stepped onto the escalator with the short Usagi on the step above. Closer to Nobuyuki’s eye level he shoved the pastry determinedly into his mouth, chewing with difficulty then chewing fast and licking his fingers, belatedly wishing he’d persuaded the older man to buy him another. 

　　“There! Happy?” 

　　“No, that was gross.” 

　　“Well, whatever. It’s beside the point!” 

　　“You had a point?” 

　　“Yes! Washū Matsuri is a grade ‘A’ jerk!” His rising volume and waving arms began drawing critical looks, and Nobuyuki shoved the boy’s cap over his face to shut him up. 

　　“I don’t know Tsukino-san, he looks like he’s just trying to do his job to me,” the tall GI shrugged, his broad palm easily dominating the flailing of Usagi as he fought to remove him. Once setting him free, Nobuyuki placated the huffing, pouting looks with the remainder of his food. 

　　The 11th centre of the CCG was a spiraling but drab interior, agate tiles of salt-and-pepper mingling well but dully with the cinereal furnishings and walls. The minimalistic style was ruined by the engorgement of grey, so much grey, so that it boarded dangerous when taking the regular stairs, where it was difficult to place the last step, or even the next one. A thief would need only the layout of one office floor to rob the entire building, with arrangements in exact replicas down to the angle of the dying potted plants. To know of this, said thief would need merely to glance through the spotless glass walls enclosing the packed cubicle mazes and spot said potted plants. 

　　They weren’t even allowed to personalize their workspace, and the most exotic elements were the piano-key style rising stairs. If they were unlucky, soon they would become part of the blah adapted from Baum’s Kansas. 

　　“I have a question: have you ever met ASC Washū?” 

　　Not this again so soon. “Have you?” 

　　“Yes, I have.” 

　　“Oh really?” 

　　“Really! He was this total, uptight, merciless dick. I bet you a million yen he even spent time as a kid searching for the perfect stick to lodge up his crack.” This earned Usagi a snort. 

　　“You know, it’s so unlike you to be openly hostile towards anyone that I’m tempted to believe you.” 

　　“Believe me!” 

　　“Alright, then when you met Matsuri, what did you do to make him behave like such a dick?” 

　　“Gah!” One could tell Usagi was ripping the egg to shreds between his teeth with the image of it as Nobuyuki’s stubborn skull. “You’re not being fair.” 

　　“No, seriously, I think I could empathize with him.” 

　　“Hmph.” 

　　The pair had ventured well and high into the building as they bickered. Due to their acclaimed standing and Nobuyuki’s class, as well as a certain lack of funds, the two shared a small, cramped communal office space with the few GIs allotted to their ward, overlooked by the slightly grander office of Director Yamamoto Rokuro, and they were hazed by scant early risers upon entering. 

　　“Here comes Don van Bunny!” Came from the corner peninsula, harrier indistinguishable from the group of chuckling white-collars. 

　　None dared to mock the prickly Sanada, who knew violence as inveterate. Instead they turned on the guileless and benevolent CBI, who would brush off such comments as jokes and mild teasing. A sheepish, inquisitive smile made its way to Usagi’s lips through his stuffed mouth. 

　　“Hey Tsukino-san, guess that bed warming finally did you some good,” drawled another man, scalp close-shaved. His broad shoulders rolled with derisiveness. A foppish girl with tight curls poked her head over his desk. 

　　“I can’t believe you even managed to score with somebody like that!” She said, disbelieving. 

　　“Fuck off and shaddup’!” Nobuyuki snarled, boxing the skinhead on their way past and glaring at each of them. He shoved Usagi ahead of him before the blond could reply, steering him about the neck to the double and unelaborate cast doors.  
  
  


********************************************************************************************************************************

  
  


　　To mess up the narrative more, let’s journey back to the woman in pastels. 

　　Four days prior to Usagi and Nobuyuki’s summons, Mado Akira took a trip through the brambles of memory lane. 

　　She had been typing with furious accuracy trying to catch up. Reports had formed a miserable city upon her desk, here and there traffic jams of post-it-notes and chewed pens. She was swamped, exhausted, and there was a permeating smell of damp in this abandoned mailroom. There were no windows here. It was a box, and that was basically it. She had acquired a fan through luck, and her chair might’ve been a throne of thorns for all its comfort. 

　　Their workload system was so ridiculously backwards, but she loathed to complain. She refused to surrender to something as trivial as paperwork. Her fellow investigators already laid low in the grass, smothering their whispers, waiting to spring and debauch her, debunk her, rip her from her standing. She felt the ridicule, the mock, as they expected her to boil over and lose control. She had no desire to allow them such satisfaction. 

　　“There can’t be much more to her than the name. A rotten apple can only produce poor seeds,” she heard them say, but she kept her dignity with silence. They wanted her to go crazy and validate them. No matter how much she put forward, her credit would never be her own because they believed she leaned on the influence of another man. 

　　 _Daddy._

　　To children, parents were the world. Whether they despised them or adored them a child would acknowledge their parent, their actions and words, their sounds, their attendance and lack of presence both, as the construct of life. Akira’s father had stretched over her horizon, filling up every nook and cranny of her world. She had been swollen with love: spoiled with it, and he had been her idol. 

　　Had, because he was dead four years now. 

　　She found it hard, aspiring to be like him when thinking about him was so painful. Yes, he had been zany, and somewhat vile in his obsession for revenge, but she had been his princess and him her vivid knight, and now he was gone. 

　　Thoughts of her father throbbed with loneliness, and she spun gratefully at the sound of the knob turning. She had enough trouble as it was without dwelling unnecessarily on sad memories. 

　　Gratitude soured to apprehension, slunk low like a beaten dog. Inside came a man, who rapped his fingers on the sill in paltry announcement. 

　　“First Class Mado,” Matsuri greeted her with all the charm of a snake, smoothing his coal suit. 

　　“ASC Matsuri,” she returned warily, tempted to continue typing. She hated to afford such a person even the slightest respect. A person who found no value in looking beyond himself. She sat back and fixed her own salmon blazer. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

　　He loomed over her, spared a bored glance at her sequestered space. She fought a rising heat in her cheeks. His pause was a deliberate insult. Clearly an emptied mailroom was unimpressive to the first son of Director Washū. He confirmed as much as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his fingers of imaginary grime. “This is quite a space you’ve managed for yourself. I would’ve hoped we could accommodate you better.” 

　　“It’s functional. I don’t really feel the need for Persian rugs and gilded oak when I’m just here to get work done,” Akira smiled, cloyingly sweet. “Plus, I couldn’t afford it. Daddy’s bank account is all well and spent by now.” His jaw tightened. Fathers, went the rumours, were a sore spot for the youngest Washū as much as for the remaining Mado. 

　　He said rigidly, “Well, I’m glad Shibuya was able to provide for you.” Then he pushed a stack neatly to the side, laying a sleek metallic device in its place. “I need you to take care of… an outsourcing for me.” The tablet slid to her and he adjusted his glasses. 

　　“An outsourcing? Division II is requesting help?” 

　　His response allowed no nonsense. “It is a matter that must be kept discrete, First Class. These individuals are something of a necessity for _‘Nutcracker’_.” 

　　 _Bait_ , she presumed, then dismissed it. Matsuri wouldn’t need her to collect his hookworms, they came willingly and easily. He’d already drafted enough good men to die for him anyway. No, he was delegating to her purposefully, out of all the reliable Division II Associates he had at his beck and call. She fingered the corners of the tablet, wondering. She pressed it ‘on’. 

　　“Sanada Nobuyuki and Tsukino… pfft, Usagi?” She read the files aloud, unable to restrain her laughter. 

　　Sanada Nobuyuki was the name of a famous samurai from the Sengoku period, and a somewhat legendary videogame icon. Tsukino Usagi was a girls’ name: probably one of the most familiar girls’ names in all of Japan and possibly for most foreigners too, as it was the title character of the famous _Sailor Moon_. Together, they seemed the aliases of a lame all-boys band. Names with such history (and such specific _kanji_ ) were sure to have earned much ridicule. 

　　“Yes, extremely amusing, I’m sure.” Matsuri placed his hand over the screen, commanding her attention. 

　　She felt the shift, felt the ground collapse into a single, fragile thread where she balanced precariously. She couldn’t see his eyes beneath the glare. “Now, First Class, _Mado-san_ , I’m sure you’re well aware of the delicate situation of certain agents under your jurisdiction following the _Quinx_ Squad’s failure with _‘Torso’_.” 

　　The air curdled and her mouth became acrid. 

　　“What are you implying?” 

　　“I need to make it very clear that exceptions have been made for your team because special persons believe you are capable of changing the outcome of this war. You know I am not one of those people. I don’t believe in wild cards, I am a purest. I like numbers better.” Matsuri bore down on her, trapped her between his arms resting firmly on the back of her chair. She could finally make out his cold, cold eyes. 

　　“You have proven yourself to be a valuable number, First Class.” 

　　 _Stop screwing around_ , she nearly snarled but coolly asked instead, “What exactly do you require of me?” 

　　“A reassurance that you’re still willing to keep your end of the bargain in regards to ‘ _Centipede_ ’.” 

　　Akira jolted and faked indifference all at once. For him to say that aloud, undaunted, heedlessly when anyone could hear, anyone could be watching… 

　　“Have I given the CCG a reason to doubt me?” 

　　“I’m not sure if you won’t.” 

　　Won’t, meaning he suspected she would. If, a thought that, somehow, she might betray them. 

　　“Who exactly are these men?” 

　　The silence stretched so long it became a symphony of the rotating fan, the rustling papers, the whirring of devices. Matsuri straightened stiffly and haughtily, backed away slightly. Akira saw the opened file then. 

　　 _Tsukino Usagi; CBI; Bureau Investigator; 11th Ward; Ōta; Tokyo; Japan_

　　Her initial thoughts flickered through snapshots of four unruly children, the members of _Quinx_. She couldn’t help that eye patch equated to _Quinx_ since her promotion First Class. But her synapses fired her to a place down deep, where only cold, long days compelled her to tread. She did not knock at the door of these memories. She plunged through them in their sickening influx. 

　　The boy in the photograph was blond and full of vigor. He wore an eye patch but it was the grin that perturbed her, spun her about, cast her into a sea of past tense. She felt measured as she measured him. 

　　 _This man was Tsukino Usagi?_

　　It required all of her strength, her conviction to the cause of humanity, to not vault across the space, to cross the room and wring Matsuri round the neck and squeeze and shout _‘What have you done? What have you done?’_ even as the man sneered. 

　　“Now make sure First Class that you do not disclose any nonessential information to them. Need to know only.” 

　　Three years ago, the Owl Suppression Operation in Nerima. 

　　Death had dogged the steps of all that dared draw breath, made winter’s bite the deep ache of its ominous eternal chill. She spotted him then, the blur of the mysterious delivery boy. And before, en route, hadn’t she caught a glimpse of that dandelion hair trailing the Director, ducking surreptitiously into an armoured car? She’d had a single thought of ‘strange’ and then Takizawa— 

　　Then she had been distracted. 

　　Next she’d known the despair of further loss, of the kind of gripping pain that coiled tight in the night, that woke you gagging on the raw desolation, that hateful guilt of being a survivor. 

　　Three years ago, following the Operation, Mado Akira had been sat down in a tiny white room with quite a few unfamiliar blank men. They all sat very still and each asked the same questions. She had given the same numb answers. No, she could not tell if those teeth belonged to Nagachika Hideyoshi, she hadn’t known he had disappeared, would they please pass on her condolences? 

　　He had been one amongst dozens of vanished persons. He had not given her the impression, during his time with her, that he was special in any form more than intelligent. He had only been assigned out of paranoia, because the boy had been too perceptive to hang around unmonitored. Especially since Takizawa— 

　　Takizawa— 

　　Taki— 

　　 _Stop it._

　　He just heard too much. 

　　The men had been intent. In the wake of the Operation, Nagachika’s charred remains had been smoking when the pictures were taken. She was grilled for hours; what Nagachika had told her; where he said he lived; the people he claimed to know; then; 

　　 _“What’s this?”_ She questioned the sheets pushed before her, heavy cardstock blackened by tight and miniscule script. 

　　 _“Nondisclosure,”_ replied the mysterious men. _“We want to ensure the family doesn’t target any of our investigators in a lawsuit. With this, you’ll agree to keep Nagachika-san’s involvement with your team confidential, and we’ll handle the families’ concerns. Sign here please, Mado-san. Please be advised that any violation of this contract will result in severe legal action and immediate termination.”_

　　And like that, Nagachika Hideyoshi never existed. To her, at least. 

　　Now he was alive, and somebody else. 

　　Akira found the discolouration peppering his neck, consuming half his fingers, stretching star-shaped from the eye patch. A clear indication that whatever happened next, Nagachika hadn’t volunteered for.  


　　

_**Investigator subject to:** RETROGRADE AMNESIA. _

　

_**Physical (from hospital; see**_ **Kanou General Discharge _):_** Severe skin damage to right side; from RIGHT FACIES to RIGHT CARPUS; expanding across RIGHT ANTERIOR THORCIS to RIGHT SIDED DORSUM. OCULUS IMPAIRMENT: Right eye blind. 

　　

_**Comments:** Limbs reported functional, no impairment to range of motion. Investigator assessed as currently stable upon discharge. Assigned Occupational Therapist for recovery. ***WARNING: SEVERE RISK FOR SEIZURE AND MENTAL RELAPSE UNDER STRESS: PTSD SUSPECT***_  


  


　　She stopped reading. She wanted to retch, spit her repulsion. In lieu of this, she crossed her arms and ankles and fixed Matsuri with a challenging stare. 

　　“What is the meaning of this?” 

　　“An assignment. As I’ve told you, First Class, I’m a purest. I hate it when things get messy. I need somebody that can be trusted to maintain composure.” 

　　“Is this a threat then?” 

　　He scoffed condescendingly. “Consider it an opportunity. You managed the incident with _‘Centipede’_ quite well. One could almost say it was handled with an affection so very unlike you.” 

　　“I did my job.” 

　　“Well then think of this as a chance you’re getting because of that.” The fan cricked as it spun again, making her shiver. “You’ll be meeting them on Monday. I enclosed the rest of the details for your convenience.” Matsuri was exiting, smiles all sly. He could’ve left then, could’ve let her consider his words and delude herself into believing that she was finally trusted. He split his lips for a low warning. 

　　“Now, don’t let yourself regret it.”  
  
  


********************************************************************************************************************************

  
  


　　Fast forward ninety-six hours. 

　　The Mado Akira of present day shifted her weight. Her hair was the silver of the moon, beautifully piled, glossy as if it had been spun from the slivers of its light. She wore maroon pastel and an expression of slight contempt, directed at the sweating Yamamoto Rokurou. The Director was evidently intimidated by her, which entertained her slightly. He floundered at the banging door, scattering pens and paperclips. He crawled after them as Akira skirted around him, unfolding her arms to stand in front of the desk. 

　　Another woman might’ve flinched at the sight before her. She might’ve spurned such casual insolence. Two men had stepped inside, the startling opposites of professionalism. 

　　The first was a tall, tall man with muscles that swelled under his untucked shirt. With how poorly he wore the expensive suit, he shouldn’t have bothered. Cardinal hair fell stiffly down his neck, swept back and sheared at the sides. His gaze was a frosted sky, bearing provocative and malicious. He adorned himself in metals; a ring of studs within the ear; fishhooks dangling from cartilage; below his lips silvery snakebites; and above a mass of embellishments along his nose and brows. She met his glare with tempered glass, letting his ego bounce off her defiant purple. He shifted, and said nothing. 

　　The other bowed and greeted, “Good morning, Director Yamamoto.” This one was shorter, wiry, with a brown baker-boy cap and a blazing yellow pleather jacket atop subtle earth tones. His pants had been rolled from the ankles an inch, flat sneakers substituting business shoes. Easily younger yet more agreeable to politeness. Shocks of gold curls poked out beneath his hat. 

　　She breathed sharply. In person, his existence was more devastating. A lost investigator rescued by the hospital, a Ghoul’s scraps from the raid in the 20th Ward. A bandaged remnant of a young man. 

　　She breathed. 

　　 _Were you the only one?_  
  
  


********************************************************************************************************************************

  
  


　　Yamamoto had never been Usagi’s favourite person. He was too by the book, less strict than bewildered by his power. Protocol was his worship even if stringency sometimes made for poorer results. When he excused himself following Usagi’s hello, Usagi was thankful but confused, peering at the closed door. Nobuyuki shook hands with their guest, then stepped aside for Usagi’s turn. He wandered up dimly. 

　　Then Usagi mouthed _déjà vu_ as he grasped soft hands. 

　　Since when did someone so beautiful exist? 

　　“Good morning, Tsukino. I am Mado Akira, Investigator First Class. Sorry if it offends you but I’m not one for formality when it comes to business. Feel free to address me as ‘Mado’ if it suits you.” 

　　“Ah, how very Western of you. Um, if it’s alright, I’ll stick to Mado-san.” 

　　Akira lapsed as she observed him, let her fingers linger. No more than a pause, but it was enough for the other man’s consternation to thicken the ‘V’ of his brows and clear his throat. 

　　“Sorry, I was trying to remember what time _Kaisei-yu_ opens,” she apologized in a tone that obviously implied she was not sorry. Her release was reluctant. 

　　Usagi scratched at his cheek as the redhead clicked his tongue. He sensed fiercely that there were things he needed to ask but he realized there was nothing he could ask that would make sense. Instead he moved behind Nobuyuki, let himself hide from those unsightly eyes. Not ugly, but a void of foreign familiarity. Which was ludicrous, because how could he have encountered the perfect Akira before today? 

　　“Please make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen. Today I am representing Division II due to our current case being extremely sensitive, both time and information wise.” 

　　“Division II?” Nobuyuki repeated. Like a light, Usagi switched from off-kilter to poised. His single eye followed her every movement, earthen and earnest, the shrewd slit of a hunter. His partner leaned over him possessively as she approached. 

　　“Yes. I’m sure by now you’ve heard of _‘Nutcracker’_ , the Ghoul that crushes men’s testicles’?” Neither he nor his partner stiffened with alarm. Rather, a raw eagerness filled them. Akira rewarded their excitement with an impressed smile. 

　　“Formerly, my team in the 1st Ward was investigating the Ghoul _‘Torso’_ , but due to complications we’ve been diverted to _‘Nutcracker’_ to assist the Suzuya Squad. Our work revealed that the scope of our case has reached beyond our ability, and we are now being coordinated by Division II.” 

　　Low, bored baritone came quickly from Nobuyuki. “By your team, you are referring to the _Quinx_ Squad.” The statement and not question made her pause, drink him in a little more. He met her cleanly, unblinking. 

　　“Yes. Are you aware of what the _Quinx_ are?” 

　　“Ghouls,” he replied, sharply. Usagi glanced at him sidelong. 

　　“ _Quinx_ are humans that have volunteered for genetic enhancement. They have _Quinque_ installed to their body, but they are not Ghouls.” He narrowed his eyes scathingly. She ignored him, “In any event, you will not be involved with my team, but you will have to recognize them on the field. The _‘Nutcracker’_ has been found responsible for human trafficking, and is a possible lead to a Ghoul auction. Because of this, despite having already secured her identity, we have merely been observing her. 

　　“A short while ago, one of our agents managed to get _‘Nutcracker’s’_ attention while undercover, and was offered a ‘part-time job’. We assume this is the method _‘Nutcracker’_ employs to kidnap young women for the event.” 

　　“So you’re going to try and use the agent as bait to find out where this auction will be held, because you think there’ll be VIPs?” Usagi asked. “I mean, why play whack-a-mole with ‘em, right? Just let them all pop up and smash ‘em with a giant hammer.” He was perched on the edge of Nobuyuki’s chair, thoughtful and accurate. And like on the train before, he tried to disguise it beneath his cap and blustering motions. 

　　“Yes. We suspect that this auction is hosted in a similar way to that of a Ghoul Restaurant. A Ghoul we have particular interest in, beyond even _‘Nutcracker’_ , could also make an appearance, the elusive _‘Big Madam’_. She was previously involved in similar events, but she has proven herself to be guile and resourceful and evaded us.” Akira crossed behind the desk to pull a glinting tablet from her briefcase. She tapped her fingers, deliberating, before handing it to Nobuyuki. “We have a list of her… achievements at HQ, but we’ve only provided you the basics for your mission. Her elimination is one of our priorities.” 

　　Nobuyuki whistled at the populating screen of a swollen, toad-shaped figure. “An SS Rated? That’s one tough lady… if she’s only one of your priorities, it must mean you expect more like her, and possibly even more dangerous.” 

　　“Yes, and it is our intent to eliminate the entire host as efficiently as possible,” she said, words chosen carefully. “You are not expected to challenge any Ghouls, or to be any kind of bait yourselves.” 

　　“No, but you do want us to get you information,” Nobuyuki finished. He held her there, calculating. 

　　“That is what you two do best. An auction that peeks the interest of somebody like _‘Big Madam_ ’ is sure to not only be grand, but exclusive. Usually partakers would be expected to have some sort of status or membership. After all, esteemed Ghouls likely hate to dine with common folk. Such an event would require intense security, and very probably, some form of record. 

　　“Division II specializes in large scale combat, but human error is a large, calculable risk. A lot of men will die, and we might not finish the job. We need to be able to recuperate from our loss in that instance, so we’ve reviewed both of you intensively. Through some semblance of a guest list, we might be able to trace any Ghouls that escape to their human egos. Your track record is a hundred percent erasure or closure, so we’re relying on you to get us that list.” 

　　 _Ah, so that’s the way the cards are dealt._

　　“Because Division II is too valuable to risk its members, but we’re both adept and expendable,” Usagi concluded. He grinned. “Sounds major risky, like double-o-seven stuff. Best kind of present after coming back to work, eh Sanada-san?” 

　　“Yeah, especially since when it comes to _‘Nutcracker’_ , you’re one of the few people who have nothing to worry about down there.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Once again I apologize for the terrible delay. I had a lot going on this past week :C Part of the reason I also took so long is also that I got some really good feedback, and although I couldn't completely incorporate it I wanted to at least attempt to, so I rewrote this chapter several times. Sasaki didn't make it in there, but at least we got Mado! So thank you to Elaine_du_Lac for a pleasant critique! I feel like this chapter flows more nicely after the heavy editing, although I think in some areas its pretty obvious I was getting tired and kinda 'meh'd' it. I might tweak it a bit later on, possibly, but not like an upheaval, just another browse through to catch all my sure mistakes.
> 
> Let me know if you find something wonky, and please divulge all thoughts, good, bad or ugly! I welcome feedback!
> 
> Definite Sassan in the next chapter :) Excited?

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea kicking around after reading several theories about Kaneki and Hide at the end of Tokyo Ghoul, and thought I'd like to start fleshing out what I think might have happened into a wild canon divergence. Of course, this story does tag Original Characters, but this is because Sasaki has his own team, so I thought Hide should have somebody to bounce ideas off of instead of being so lonely. So, Sanada Nobuyuki in the tags isn't from the Samurai Warriors Video Game, he's intended as Hide's partner. Finishing up the second chapter really quick here, so please leave me a response (criticism welcome! even grammar or spelling mistakes! please don't feel too hesitant to correct me) so I can have an idea of how/if you enjoyed!


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